My son was two years old when it became clear that there were concerns regarding his unusual behaviors. As a young mother, I reassured myself by thinking, “It’s okay, he is just being himself.” However, by the age of four, significant behavioral outbursts began to emerge. By five, when he started school, I was told he “had to be medicated for his own good,” rather than having his mental, emotional, or intellectual needs properly addressed. That marked the beginning of what felt like a never-ending cycle of appointments, negative behaviors, and school visits.

From the start, he was given the common diagnosis of ADHD and prescribed Adderall. Instead of improving, he spiraled further out of control. I attended IEP meeting after IEP meeting, pleading for meaningful support for my child. He was referred to therapists and psychiatrists for testing, and the list of diagnoses continued to grow while his medications were repeatedly changed. Eventually, he was diagnosed with severe dysphonetic dyslexia. Despite this, the IEP meetings only became more difficult, as the school continually failed to provide the services he truly needed. The focus always returned to his behavior — that he could not sit still or follow directions.

The school board eventually became involved in one of the IEP meetings, resulting in arrangements that were promised but never followed through. An IQ test later revealed that, at only five years old, he had the auditory comprehension of a child twice his age and a verbal vocabulary stronger than that of many adults. I ultimately enrolled him in an outside dyslexia program so he could learn to read, write, and spell, while the school appeared more focused on containing his behavior. At that time, his behavior primarily consisted of being loud and making noises, likely stemming from boredom and inadequate academic stimulation.

This pattern continued throughout elementary school and into middle school. Eventually, he was removed from his school and placed in a special education classroom in another city. This led to his first psychiatric hospitalization. By the age of twelve, he was effectively “sentenced” to an alternative school, which became a major turning point in his life.

Because of his social anxiety and poor emotional regulation, he had never truly formed friendships outside of sports. At the alternative school, he began associating with other boys. One day, they walked to a nearby chain store where an item costing less than twenty dollars was stolen. Feeling guilty, my son turned the item over to the school resource officer at the alternative school. Without my permission, the officer contacted the store and arranged for my son to apologize. As a result, he was placed on probation because the store enforced a zero-tolerance theft policy.

I believe it is important to note that this same “alternative” and supposedly rehabilitative school would frequently call me regarding his behavior and then leave both of us alone in the principal’s office so that I could physically discipline him. I never did, I would plead with my son to choose better ways to cope with his anger. At only twelve years old, my son now had a juvenile record, a probation officer, court involvement, community intervention programs, therapists, psychiatrists, continual medication changes, and an ever-growing list of diagnoses. He had officially entered the justice system.

At nearly every behavioral incident, he was placed in juvenile detention — shackled and chained — for being a child who could not “sit still” in a classroom and who acted out because of inadequate interventions and support. This led to placements ranging from a wilderness program to two separate detention centers across the state. The state officials stepped in and suggested he was removed from my custody and placed in a group home. Due to no negligence of my parenting, but to the inadequacy of the system built to “help” him. I denied this request stating that my child would remain with me. No matter how my son behaved, the hours I missed from work, or how many times I cried in the shower so nobody could hear he was my little boy who I would always love and fight for.

By the age of fifteen, he stopped taking his medications and refused to attend school. He agreed to move in with his biological father to start high school, hoping that a change in environment might help. It did not. Within a few months, he was placed on probation again for allegedly “bullying” a girl after making an inappropriate but nonsexual comment. After another incident, he was once again placed in a detention home.

This particular facility, however, provided exceptional care. During his time there, he fully committed himself to his education and excelled academically. With accommodations that addressed his dyslexia, he caught up on assignments and earned credits at an impressive pace. Upon release, he was stable, hopeful, excited to attend a traditional school, and eager to play sports again. He returned to live with me in another part of the state.

However, when I attempted to enroll him in school, we learned that because the detention center was not contracted with the local school district, he was given only two options: either take an unassisted standardized exam or start over in the ninth grade. Despite all the hard work he had done, he should have been entering the eleventh grade. Faced with those choices, he decided to quit school entirely. That was when everything truly fell apart.

At sixteen, he was left without the skills necessary to enter the workforce, unable to pass a standardized test, and deeply angry that his academic achievements had effectively been disregarded. Like so many tragic and familiar stories, he fell in with the wrong crowd — older adolescents who influenced him negatively. He began smoking marijuana, staying out late, and living without direction or purpose. He was defeated.

During this time, he committed his first serious crime. He was persuaded by two others to rob a local convenience store using an airsoft gun. He walked away with only thirty-three dollars. At seventeen, he was placed in county jail, where he remained until he turned eighteen and received a sentence of twenty years, split to serve two. He was then sent to prison, where he endured experiences I cannot even begin to imagine.

He will turn twenty-seven this year. For the past decade, his life has been consumed by the vicious cycle of addiction, incarceration, homelessness, and despair. He is a devastating example of the school-to-prison pipeline.
Throughout all of this, some may ask: where was I, his mother? I was there from the very beginning, fighting and begging for help for the two-year-old child who first showed signs that he needed additional support. Yet in a society where behavior, socioeconomic status, and race often determine who receives compassion and assistance, real help never came — unless it arrived in the form of shackles or another diagnosis.

My son is truly a good man. Although he is currently sitting in a jail cell, he is working hard to overcome the difficult circumstances life handed him. His road may never be easy, but I will continue to stand beside him when every other system has failed him.